


Post It

by insideimfeelindirty



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Accidental Boner, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Japril, accidental fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6051148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideimfeelindirty/pseuds/insideimfeelindirty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Japril have their own Post It moment - Merder style. Tumblr prompt for Averybody, from Jackson's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post It

_**Then:** _

 

"What do we want to promise each other?"

 

She finally smiles, letting her shoulders sink as her cheeks crease into deep dimpled lines. _Fuck_ , he’s missed those dimples, that smile, those eyes welling up with something that’s just for him. 

 

“A post it note? Really?"

 

Even now, even as they sit down to do _this_ she finds a way of derailing the conversation and worry about some practicality. It’s one of those things that he doesn’t like, but somehow he still loves in her. 

 

“That’s all I had, ok?"

 

This wasn’t exactly planned, none of it was. He didn’t plan on getting lost on the way, adding another three to the thirteen hours they spent getting here. He didn’t plan on them arriving so late the spontaneous decision to elope had to be postponed until morning. He certainly didn’t plan on standing up and interrupting her damn wedding, but he couldn’t stop himself and right now he’s thinking plans mean shit, because look where his impulses have gotten him so far. 

 

“This isn’t exactly what I was expecting on my wedding night."

 

She tugs on the cord of her hotel bathrobe, suddenly unsure again, running all the why nots in her head all over again. He can see the cogs turning, the yearning for that long-planned traditional ritual he knows is important to her. 

 

She wants it to be Jesus-approved this time, and this is the compromise, because this is the most official he can make it for her tonight and there is no way he’s letting her get that second room she tried to insist on. 

 

“Technically this won’t be your wedding night at all if you don’t sit down and write this damn post it note with me."

 

That finally gets her, because he can see she is not unaffected, that she wants this as much as he does. That she wants _him_. 

 

“Ok."

 

She finally sits, crosslegged on the edge of the bed, face bare and hair damp from the shower. The bathrobe is white, which is as traditional as its going to get tonight, but he’s glad she’s got this at least. 

 

“Ok, so what do we want to promise each other?"

 

His stomach actually fucking turns when she looks at him. Her eyes are wide and fixed on him, her jaw tight and determined. He’s never seen her look more sure. 

 

"To love each other even when we hate each other."

 

He chuckles lightly, scribbling down her words in his illegible crawl. The ink is blue and the post it note is blue too, and he almost wants to tell her it’s one more tradition for her record, but looking down at her words and how they echo his at the barn it doesn’t seem important. 

 

“To love each other… even when we hate each other."

 

He swallows hard, not letting the lightness of the setting take anything away from the gravity of their promise. Every thing he doesn’t like he loves, but right now he can’t for the life of him remember what those things might be. 

 

“What else?"

 

“No running, ever. No one walks out, no matter what happens."

 

They’ve done enough running from each other, he’s done with that and she better be too. _Fuck_ , he thinks she is, but he can’t help but let the pen pause while he looks up at her for confirmation.

 

“No running, no matter what."

 

He can hardly scribble down the words quickly enough, putting too much pressure on the pen and nearly piercing the paper as he writes. She won’t run. She’ll stay. With him. _Forever._  


 

“Ok, and then..?"

 

“To take care of each other when we’re old, senile and smelly."

 

“Senile?"

 

“And smelly."

 

He can’t imagine her without her glittering wit or her unexpectedly snappy comebacks, can’t ever imagine seeing the light in her dwindle and he brushes the thought away before it can take root and ruin the moment. 

 

“Sometimes you are a bit smelly."

 

Sometimes when the ER is especially busy and she’s been working a long shift, he can tell. But she doesn’t smell bad, she just smells a bit more, a bit more of herself, which he could never not like. 

 

“Shut up."

 

Her laugh rings in his ears and make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he’s about to lose control and reach out for the pale skin peeking out from the bathrobe, but he really needs to finish this. She’d never forgive him, and he’d really rather they didn’t start out like that. 

 

“We’ll take care of each other when we are old, senile and fucking smelly, got it."

 

He agrees, writing the words down with all the seriousness he can manage. And he really shouldn’t have his boner straining against his pants while he is writing his damn wedding vows, but he can’t help it. She is right there, and it’s been too long since she was this close and this undressed near him, and _dear God_ his handwriting is getting worse by the second as he struggles to contain himself.  

 

In a final moment of self control and a sincere wish to retain a dignified memory of what is essentially the most important moment of his life, he signs his name and hands the note to her.

 

She smiles when she signs it, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks and bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. 

He takes her in, commits every part of her and this moment to memory. She is his, only his. His _wife_.

 

“This is forever. Married."

 

“Married."

 

Later, there is a traditional wedding night in every sense of the word. Her bathrobe is borrowed, but her “Just Married” panties purchased from the hotel gift shop are brand new. He could, after all, give her some of the traditional that would make her feel like Jesus approved before he actually did. 

 

The next day there is a smelly chapel and another, new white dress with a blue garter hidden somewhere underneath. There is a borrowed bible for her to clutch as they repeat the vows from the post it, and the only old thing he’d allow her were the shoes she had been wearing. She cries again, and he can’t help shedding a few of his own, because _fuck it_ he’s a bit traditional himself.

 

 

 

* * *

 

_**Now:** _

 

 

"What do you need, for me to say I’m sorry?"

 

She glares at him, eyes wide and glinting with something that isn’t quite rage but isn’t quite passion either. Stubbornness, he thinks. Refusal to accept that things have changed between them, irrevocably. 

 

"I need you to _be_ sorry."

 

He wishes he could keep himself from raising his voice, from letting the anger seep into his words, but he’s fucking stubborn too.

 

“I’m sorry, ok? I am."

 

He just looks at her, with rehearsed indifference, listening to the words that she has repeated over and over but he refuses to accept, because he knows what comes next, what always comes next. 

 

“But I needed to go."

 

“You didn’t."

 

The argument is old and overused, but somehow they’re stuck on this, always this. 

 

“I did. I had to go. I lost Samuel, and I needed to go, for me."

 

He grits his teeth, chewing on the bitterness flooding his mouth. She still doesn’t get it, no matter how many times they have this argument. 

 

“I lost him too!"

 

He can’t keep the rage simmering away under the surface contained when they get to this point, and they always get to this point. He stands up abruptly, studiously avoiding her pleading eyes as the bar stool scrapes against the hardwood floor. 

 

She follows him into the bedroom, because she has never learnt when to back down from a fight. It is one of those things he doesn’t like about her but loves anyway, but right now it’s really hard to equate the word love with her. He wants her to leave him alone, to give him some fucking space. He wants her gone. 

 

“I really want us to be able to talk about this, Jackson."

 

The battle in her voice is gone, but her continued presence only fuels his frustration. 

 

“All we do is talk."

 

Suddenly he’s tired. Tired of the day, of this conversation, of this situation. He lost not one but two patients today, both unnecessary deaths, both unimaginable losses to the two sets of parents he had to tell, both losses he wishes he couldn’t relate to quite as well as he can. She knew, she was there with him. She should know better than to push him on a day like today. 

 

"Then why are you with me?"

 

He catches a flash of light glinting off his wedding ring, still firmly in place on his ring finger and all of a sudden it feels heavy with the weight of failure. 

 

"Because of that!"

 

He points to the framed post it hanging over their bed, drawing her eyes to the little piece of paper that contains all their hopes and wishes for their marriage, but also all their disappointments and failures. 

 

"Because I meant that. I promised I wouldn’t run. I promised I would love you."

 

He never wants to be the one that runs, never wants to become the man his father was, he fucking refuses.  

 

"Even when you hate me."

 

She isn’t hurt, just calm and accepting, like it’s easier for her to know that he hates her because at least it’s not indifference. 

 

"Even when I hate you."

 

And right now he hates her, he _fucking hates her_. He hates her for running once, for running twice, for running every time it got hard. He hates her, because she fucking promised she wouldn’t run anymore, because she knows he’s fucking lost without her, because she knows he fucking needs her. He hates her for coming back and refusing to run from him one last time. 

 

“I’m sorry I ran."

 

He chuckles bitterly at her admission, her first acknowledgement that her actions had amounted to running. Her finally admitting to it doesn’t make it hurt any less, but it’s a relief to hear it.  

 

“I just had to go where I was needed, where I felt like I could help…"

 

She starts explaining again, starts running through the reasons why, going over the things that were more important to her than this marriage and he can’t fucking stand it. 

 

“I know why you did it."

 

He interrupts, cuts her off before she can make it any worse. She has a fucking magical ability of always making it worse. 

 

“I know why you went the first time, I know why you went again. I know you needed to feel something else, that you needed to feel useful. I know it didn’t feel like a choice, but it felt like a calling."

 

He’s calm now, slowly twisting the simple gold band around his ring finger. He still can’t look at her, doesn’t want to.

 

“I know why you did all of it. It’s what I love about you."

 

"And it’s what you hate about me." 

 

* * *

__

_**Later:** _

__

“Where are my keys?"

 

“Are they not on the hook?"

 

Her brow furrows, her forehead creasing into deep grooves as she concentrates on his words and tries to unlock their meaning. 

 

“What hook?"

 

He slides past her, his hand brushing over her shoulder in a small gesture of consolation. He finds her keys on the hook by the door, where they always are. Almost always. In every house they’ve lived in there has been a hook by the door, a hook she always asks him to put up, a hook she always admonishes him for not using as he should. 

 

“Here. Now put your coat on."

 

He hands her the keys, giving her a small peck on her forehead which is now smooth and soft. Her eyes focus on the keys he placed in her hands, eyes flicking back and forth in confusion. 

 

“Oh."

 

He put it down to sheer exhaustion the first time she didn’t put her keys on that hook. The second time he thought old age was making her forgetful. The third time he knew it wasn’t an accident and his heart sank. 

 

“What’s the name of this doctor again?"

 

She isn’t putting her coat on like he asked, she is standing in the kitchen by the island unit, red notebook in hand. 

 

“Dr. Jeff Chang."

 

His voice is patient, soothing, repeating the doctors name to her for the tenth time this morning. She writes it down in her red notebook, on a new blank page so she can’t see that she already wrote the same name down yesterday. Her book is full of reminders, full of words, phrases and facts that are forgotten almost the instant they are committed to paper. 

 

“Dr. Chang,” she repeats to herself, eyes running over the words as if she hopes her retina will somehow keep the information sealed in her leaky brain. 

 

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get your coat on."

 

He retrieves the grey coat, her favourite, from the closet and slides it over her arms, helping her to button it up. Her fingers aren’t as cooperative as they used to be and she is calmer when he helps and when she doesn’t catch her own body working against her. 

 

He pulls her in against his chest into a tight hug, stroking her back in big circles. She smells like cinnamon and her perfume, like a familiar feeling of home, of belonging. Her scent lingers on the pillow next to him in the morning, and it’s the smell he misses when she goes to see the grandkids without him. When she _used_ to go see them without him. 

 

“Jackson?"

 

Her voice is small and unsure, mumbling against his shoulder. 

 

“Yes, I’m here?"

 

He pulls her face up to look at him, her eyes wide and frightened, her bottom lip quivering slightly.

 

“What is this doctor going to tell us?"

 

She is a little more herself suddenly, her eyes clearer and more focused, a sudden, heartbreaking awareness written on her face.

 

He exhales slowly, pulling her back against his chest and continuing the circles he’s been tracing on her back. He’s a doctor, he knows what Dr Chang is going to say. She is a doctor, somewhere inside her, in her more lucid moments, she knows what Dr Chang is going to say. 

 

“It’s going to be ok. I’ll take care of you."

 

Behind her, on the wall littered with family photos - photos of the grandkids, photos of that day in Lake Tahoe, photos from their silver wedding anniversary - is the post it, still in its frame. 

 

“We’ll manage. You and me."

 

She straightens her back and smiles that beautiful smile he can never get enough of, deep dimples marking either side of her face. Her eyes are lined with small, soft wrinkles, her hair is still red, though duller, with streaks of grey by the temples. She has never looked more beautiful. 

 

“Me and you,” she corrects him, grabbing his hand and turning towards the door, towards the future they still have left. 

 

When she turns back toward him again her eyes seem clouded, a little darker and a little less present. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this got accidentally really fluffy, then really sweary, then the boner came out of nowhere (sorry!), then really angsty and then really sad. Sorry about all the accidental feelings.


End file.
